


Silver Fox Sorrows

by lavenderlotion



Series: Stetopher Appreciation Week [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Bottom Chris Argent, Come Marking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Future Fic, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Insecure Chris Argent, Light Angst, M/M, implied infidelity, reassurance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 22:45:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16417445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderlotion/pseuds/lavenderlotion
Summary: “I think he’s cheating on us,” Stiles says quietly, the words tumbling out his mouth as though they burn—and they do, inside his chest as they grip at his heart and make it hard to breathe.Peter makes a wounded noise behind him, pushing his nose into the nape of Stiles’ neck and breathing deeply. His arms tighten around Stiles’ stomach, and Stiles covers Peter’s hand with his own, twining their fingers together as he breathes slowly. He’s not going to cry. He’s already cried too much.





	Silver Fox Sorrows

**Author's Note:**

> BIG thank you to AuguryofInnocence for coming up with this title! This is for Stetopher Week, and loosely fits the age gap complications prompt.
> 
> If you’re worried about the implied infidelity tag, I’ve explained what happens in the ends notes!

Stiles is the one to find the box of hair dye. It’s in the garbage can in the kitchen, shoved to the very bottom underneath empty food bags and dirty wrappers, used coffee filters and wet paper towels. The picture on the front of the box is of an older man, a full head of dark hair and a dark beard to match. The kit claims to be “Safe for facial hair!”.

He doesn’t think anything of it. Why would he? He’s a Sheriff’s kid, sure, but one box of hair dye does not a pattern make, and Stiles dismisses it. But then Chris trims his beard short enough that it’s hardly more than stubble, and you can’t see the skunk stripes like you used to, when it was long enough for Stiles to pet.

When he asks, disappointed but trying his best not to show it, Chris doesn’t give him a solid answer. He ducks his head and avoids Stiles’ eyes, and the lie is easier to spot than it’s ever been before, like Chris doesn’t even try. It’s then that Stiles starts to worry, wondering what it could be that Chris isn’t telling them. 

* * *

Peter notices when Chris begins to shy away from touch. It’s subtle at first, not something that Peter thinks Stiles will have noticed. It’s things like Chris sitting in the armchair instead of the couch, keeping his feet tucked under his own chair during dinner instead of letting their legs tangle together under the table. When it gets worse—Chris coming home later and later from work, skirting around them in the kitchen, pulling his hand out of Peter’s as they walk downtown—he begins to fear.

Peter is good when it comes to self-preservation. He knows how to cut and run, when to give up in order to save his own ass. He carefully picks his fights and he knows when to back down. And now, now he wants to back down. Wants to run before Chris has the chance to break his heart, once again, just like he did all those years ago when they were young and foolish and wanted to change the world. 

But he—he can’t, not this time, not as he watches Chris step out of the hug Stiles wrapped him in. Stiles pouts, a frown falling across his lips. Peter knows then, staring at the two men he loves, something dark already taking form in his chest, that he isn’t going to cut and run. No matter what is going on with Chris, what Chris is keeping from him, he won’t run.

He won’t,  _ can’t _ , leave Stiles.

* * *

It’s Stiles who brings it up, when Chris is on his morning jog. It’s something else that he’s started to do in the last few weeks that he never did before. He goes to the gym now, three-sometimes-four nights a week. On the nights he doesn’t, he goes to the range to “work on his aim”, even though there hasn’t been a supernatural related attack on Beacon Hills since the pack established itself half a decade ago.

What makes Stiles say something, what twists at his stomach until he feels nauseous and can no longer force the words down, is the shirt hanging over the back of the desk chair. It’s a button down, a dark, bluish-grey that makes Chris’ eyes look bright as the material stretches across his shoulders. It’s a  _ nice _ shirt, and Stiles knows from doing the laundry that it’s an expensive one.

The problem is, Chris hasn’t bought himself clothing in three years, and he hasn’t worn a dress shirt in the middle of the week in even longer. When he came home with a clothing bag from one of the nicer shops downtown, Stiles had tried so hard not to jump to conclusions. 

But he can’t stop his brain, not when it gets like this, and it hasn’t stopped running in days. All the signs that Stiles can think of are there-—working out again, wanting to dye his hair and dressing nicer than he ever did before, spending more time at work and less time at home, withdrawing from physical and emotional intimacy—and Stiles can’t keep the thoughts in forever. 

Stiles takes a deep breath and pushes against Peter where he’s wrapped around his back. Their bed is warm, their body heat gathering under the covers, though the spot Chris occupied has gone cold. Stiles keeps his arm tucked in close, not wanting to touch the empty mattress. His heart is beating too fast inside his chest and Stiles feels as though he can’t breathe. 

“I think he’s cheating on us,” Stiles says quietly, the words tumbling out his mouth as though they burn—and they do, inside his chest as they grip at his heart and make it hard to breathe. 

Peter makes a wounded noise behind him, pushing his nose into the nape of Stiles’ neck and breathing deeply. His arms tighten around Stiles’ stomach, and Stiles covers Peter’s hand with his own, twining their fingers together as he breathes slowly. He’s not going to cry. He’s already cried too much.

“I haven’t smelt anything,” Peter says, the words slurred around fangs. One catches on the skin of Stiles’ neck and he shivers

“He’s a hunter,” Stiles whispers, and though he doesn’t want it to be true, he can’t keep the words from spilling out of his throat. “He’d be able to h-hide that.” 

Peter nods into the back of his neck, and that is more than enough for Stiles to know that he agrees with what he just said. A sharp spike of  _ hurt _ hits him right in the heart and it forces his breath to get caught up in his throat. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Peter brings his hand up to clumsily wipe under Stiles’ eyes.

Stiles grabs at Peter’s hand and presses his palm to his face, breathing in and nosing between his fingers. Peter slips his free hand under Stiles’ waist to pull him closer, and Stiles turns in the hold of Peter’s arms so he can bury himself in his husband’s chest. 

He takes a deep breath of Peter, of the man he loves more than anyone else in the world next to Chris, and he lets himself fall apart.

* * *

It’s as Chris toes of his running shoes, leaving them neatly by the front door—and god forbid he doesn’t, with the way Peter acts—that he hears the soft whimpering. Stiles doesn’t cry very often. Yes, he wears his heart on his sleeve but sadness is an emotion he has always kept close. In the years they’ve been together, Chris can count the number of times he has seen Stiles cry, really cry, like Chris can hear that he’s doing right now.

Because of that, Chris rushes up the stairs as worry begins to sit heavy in his stomach. He’s sweaty from his run, but he ignores the way his hair is sticking to his forehead as he heads straight into his bedroom. His pace falters when he steps into the bedroom to find Stiles curled up against Peter’s chest, the blankets still wrapped tightly around them. 

When Chris meets his eyes, Peter’s are glowing blue, and his top lip pulls over his teeth in a snarl. Chris stumbles back a step at having such a look directed at him, his heart rate picking up with something close to fear. Stiles seems to notice the change in Peter, and his body goes tense, his shoulders drawing up around his jaw. 

“Stiles, are you—” Chris is cut off by Peter’s growl, and he stumbles back another step, grabbing at the wall behind him to keep himself steady. 

Stiles lets out a broken sounding sob, and Chris’ own heart gets unbearably tight, his own eyes stinging with emotion at hearing such a noise come from his boy. Slowly, Stiles extracts himself from Peter’s hold—though it doesn’t seem like Peter makes it easy to do—and pulls himself into a sitting position, bringing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. Stiles has always been good at making himself look small, and the way he does so now, keeping his eyes somewhere around Chris’ feet, hurts even more. 

“Did I...did I do something wrong?” Stiles asks, and his voice breaks, tears pooling over as he scrubs at his eyes harshly. 

“What—” Chris goes to ask, but he doesn’t get a chance to finish before Peter is on his feet, stalking toward him and caging him in against the bedroom wall.

“How  _ dare _ you!” Peter shouts, and he shoves Chris backwards, hard enough that his head snaps back and hits the wall. His ears ring for a moment, but Peter is still there, not giving him a chance to breathe before he’s shouting again. “Did they mean nothing to you? When we stood together and swore on mother moon to spend our lives together, ‘till death do us fucking part, were you  _ lying _ ?”

“Peter, stop,” Stiles says, his voice weak and tear-filled. 

Chris has no idea what’s going on, but his head is reeling. He wants to ask, but Peter is still snarling in his face, his fangs protruding over his bottom lip, his top lip still raised in a snarl. He looks angrier than Chris has seen him in more years than he can count, and the knot in Chris’ stomach grows worse. 

“How are you hiding the scent?” Peter growls into his face, and his eyes are still blue.

“What scent?” Chris asks, his brows pulling down over his forehead.

“Who are they?” Peter demands, but he still isn’t making any sense, not to Chris. He shakes his head, not understanding and still too out of sorts to put his confusion into words. 

“Please don’t keep lying,” Stiles says, and Chris’ eyes snap back to him. Everything in him, years and years of ingrained training, is telling him to keep his eyes on Peter, on the  _ threat _ , and Chris’ heart aches at thinking of  _ Peter _ as a threat. “W-we knows that you’re...that you’re seeing someone else. 

“I’m not seeing someone else?” Chris says, his voice rising at the end to turn his statement into a question. He’s too confused to say anything else. 

“Chris,” Stiles says, and his voice is hardly more than a whisper but it’s loud in Chris’ ears.

He watches as Stiles gets off the bed, making his way towards them in nothing but a small pair of briefs. Chris finds himself staring, eyes drawn to the miles of long, pale skin without thinking—Stiles is gorgeous, young and flawless and Chris has to bite down on a sharp bite of insecurity; now isn’t the time for his own hangups. 

“I really have no idea what you two are talking about,” Chris says, looking between Stiles and Peter. God, they are  _ both _ gorgeous. 

“We know about the  _ affair _ ,” Peter tells him, spitting out the word like it hurts him to say. Chris stares, his head tilting to the side as he tries to figure out _ what the hell _ his husband is talking about. When he continues to say nothing, Peter continues, “We know you’re seeing someone else!”

Chris blinks, running the words over and over in his mind as though if he repeats them enough times they’ll start making sense. They don’t, not even after the fourth run through, and he stumbles half a step back that he doesn’t have, pressing himself into the wall behind him as his brain attempts to process what is so clearly happening. 

They...they think he’s cheating on them. That he’s seeing, dating,  _ sleeping _ with someone else. They think that he could do that, to the two best things that have ever happened in his entire life, the two people he holds dearer than anyone else. But, what hurts the most—what makes his chest feel like it’s splitting open and ripping him apart—is that he  _ made _ them feel that way. Something he did, or didn’t do, allowed his husbands to think he could possibly turn to someone else. 

He wants to cry. He wants to tear at his own skin until there’s no more fire eating at his heart. 

“I—you two really think I’d do that?” Chris asks, and he can’t stop the way his voice cracks. He feels empty, hollowed out and sick, nauseous even as his stomach continues to twist sharply. 

“I don’t know!” Stiles says, angrily scrubbing more tears off of his cheeks. “But there’s the hair dye and the working out, the way you’ve been dressing better and spending longer and longer at work! And then there’s—”

Peter takes over for him when Stiles’ voice fails, his eyes still glowing blue even as he takes a half-step back and grabs blindly for Stiles’ hand. “The way you’ve been pulling away for  _ months _ . When was the last time we even had sex, Christopher? Because I know, and I damn well know how often we  _ used _ to have sex.”

Chris nods along with what they’re saying—probably not his best move, but he feels so numb—because it’s true, all of it. All the things that they’re saying are things that he’s done, but they are not what Peter and Stiles seem to think they are. Even still, he doesn’t know what to say. The words keep getting stuck in his throat, caught up on his dry tongue. 

He doesn’t know what to say, how to make any of it better. Hell, he’s not sure he  _ can _ make it better. Still, he takes a deep breath and forces the words out. 

“I’m not  _ cheating _ on you,” he begins, and he understands why Peter said it like it hurt him—it does, even when he knows it’s not true; and just the possibility burns at his chest and makes it even harder to breathe. “I-I would  _ never _ cheat on you,” his voice is as steady and solid as he can make it, and he knows that his hear beat will ring true. “None of those things—they weren’t because—I couldn’t ever—dammit! I’m getting old, alright!”

Neither of them seem to have anything to say to that, though it could have been how he shouted the words, his voice desperate and pleading even to his own ears. He watches as they both think, awed again at how goddamn  _ lucky _ he got in life, loving and being loved by these two amazing, brilliant men. 

Brilliant or not, they don’t seem to get it, and Chris takes another deep breath before he lays himself bare. “I’m getting old. I’m not as strong as I used to be, not nearly in as good of shape. My hairs greying and my belly is growing and neither...neither of you are anything but  _ perfect _ . You’re— _ fuck _ , both of you are gorgeous, and miles smarter than I am. I don’t. I don’t measure up the way I used to. You’re better than me, both of you, and I—I don’t feel like I’m good enough. Like I deserve you.”

Stiles makes a hurt noise, his face crumbling even further and Chris doesn’t hide his wince, the ache in his heart only growing stronger at seeing how he’s further hurt the man he loves. 

“You’re a fucking ass hole,” Peter says, and his voice is hard and angry and unpleasant. He steps forward and Chris closes his eyes, expecting—well, he’s expecting to be struck, too many years of equating mistakes to beatings to think anything else—and he gasps in shock when Peter presses the gentlest of kisses to his lips, capturing Chris’ bottom lip between his own. 

One of them makes a noise, something broken, and Chris raises his hands to cradle Peter’s face in his hands. His thumbs brush against the rough, stubbled edge of Peter’s cheek and he kisses back. Their lips taste desperate, and when Peter grabs onto his hips the hold is supernatural tight, no doubt leaving behind bruises. It’s been so long, too long, since they’ve touched each other like this, and Chris has to pull back with a sob when he realizes he can’t remember the last time he kissed either of his husbands. 

Before he can move any further Stiles is there, pressing into his side and turning Chris’ face towards him to lick into his mouth. One of his hands drops from Peter’s face to wrap around Stiles’ body, opening himself up and letting Stiles burrow closer. Chris settles his hand low on Stiles’ back, his pinky slipping beneath the band of his underwear as he urges Stiles even closer.

“None of that matters,” Stiles whispers, and Chris tries to believe him. Stiles brings his other hand up and presses it to Chris’ face, dragging his palm down Chris’ jaw in such a way that he can feel the press of metal from Stiles’ ring. 

He wants to be as close as possible, after so long.

“We love you,” Peter says, his voice like gravel, rumbling out of his chest on a growl. His eyes are glowing blue, still, but Chris doesn’t feel threatened.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pleads, begs. The words claw out of his mouth desperately, and the hurt. “I’m so sorry, I would never, I  _ could _ never—” he kisses Peter, nipping at his bottom lip and tugging him closer, pressing up along both of them, thighs to shoulders. “—I love you both so much, so much.”

Chris draws back with a shaking inhale when Peter nips at his throat. He tilts his head back as Peter spends his time there, sucking and biting into the skin. There’ll be marks left, he’s sure, but he doesn’t do anything to get to Peter to stop. 

When Peter pulls back, Chris makes a desperate, lost sort of noise, though he lets his eyes flutter open to watch Peter and Stiles kiss each other, forever one of his favourite sights. Peter bites into Stiles’ bottom lip and the younger man moans, his hips twitching forward under Chris’ hand.

When he looks down, Stiles is hard, his cock pressing against the thin material of his briefs, a dark spot of wetness forming around the head. It’s easy for Chis to squat down and lean forward onto his knees, though he groans when they protest, his body creaking. He’s sore before he even rests any weight on his knees, but the way Stiles’ eyes go wide and dark when he looks down is worth the discomfort.

He sways forward, pressing his face against the hard length in front of him and breathing in familiar musk and something that is  _ Stiles _ , that smells like home and comfort and the happiest years of his life. Chris looks up at him, rubbing his chin across Stiles’ dick just to hear his breath catch. 

When a hand tangles in his hair, Chris follows the arm up to Peter. He’s standing beside Stiles with their sides pressed together and Chris gets lost staring at the wide expanse of Peter’s chest, mapping it with his eyes. He lifts his arm to feel the dusting of hair under his palm, thumbing over a nipple until it’s hard, rolling it between his fingers. Peter is still staring at him, electric blue eyes blown wide and dark with arousal, but Chris doesn’t move from where he’s still mouthing at Stiles’ cock. 

He pulls back when Peter tugs at his hair and he pulls his hand back so he can tug Stiles’ underwear down. His cock springs up, hard and heavy as it smacks against his stomach. The head is shiny and slick and Chris leans forward to lick up a drop of precome. It’s salty on his tongue and he loves it, wasting no time in wrapping his lips over the head of sucking Stiles down.

As out of practice as he may be, he finds that this is something that comes to him easily. He breathes through his nose as he takes Stiles deeper, relaxing his throat and swallowing around the head. Chris runs his hands up and down Stiles’ thighs, dragging his palms around Stiles’ hips and grabbing his ass, urging Stiles to fuck forward.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Stiles moans, his breath rattling out of him. When Chris looks up, Peter has Stiles in a harsh kiss, licking into his mouth and playing with one of his nipples, rough in the way that Stiles likes. 

Stiles has always had somewhat of a hair trigger. He’s fast to come and usually fast to go again in a way that Peter has only ever been able to match. It’s another thing that Chris has been conscious of the last few years—once he’s come once, he’s out for the next couple of hours, and he can’t keep up with either of them in the same way they’re able to keep up with each other. 

Chris doesn’t notice he’s stopped moving until Stiles’ hands settle on his cheeks, palms wide and hands soft. He brushes his fingers gently under Chris’ eyes, thumbs running down the bride of his nose. Pulling off with a popping noise, he drops his eyes as he takes in a ragged breath, trying to ignore the familiar ache in his chest.

“Sorry, I—” Chris tries, his voice rough, more from emotion than from what he was doing and he looks up when Stiles’ tilts his chin that way.

“I love you,” Stiles says, eyes shining once again. 

“We both love you,” Peter adds, rubbing his thumb in small circles along Chris’ temple, right where his hair is the greyest. 

He falls forward, resting his forehead against Stiles’ hips and takes a deep breath. Peter has stepped even closer, and Chris turns his head, leaning his temple against Peter’s side. Both of them are still touching him, hands gentle on his face and head and Chris wraps a hand around each of their ankles. 

They love him. It’s something he’s always known,  _ of course _ he knows they love him, but it’s been easy to lose sight of that in the face of the way he’s been feeling. He is so much...less, than he used to be, that he has to wonder how they can say that with such honesty in their eyes. Chris isn’t going to doubt them, not here and not like this, and he looks up at them, a silent  _ thank you  _ falling from his lips.

“Can we go to the bed?” Stiles asks, and there’s a hesitance to his voice that Chris isn’t used to hearing. Stiles got over being shy about sex a few months into their relationship when he realized that yes, Chris and Peter really  _ were _ attracted to him. 

“Of course, darling,” Chris says, and he takes a deep breath before forcing out words that taste bitter and burn along his throat. “I’m going to need help up.”

Peter chuckles, but it’s a kind noise. He squats down, giving Chris a long kiss before grabbing him under his arms and pulling him up with him, only breaking the kiss to rest their foreheads together once they’re standing. Stiles kisses Chris’ shoulder then grabs his hand, tugging gently and leading him over to the bed. Peter presses along his back, nipping sharply at Chris’ neck and Chris shudders, raising his arms as Peter pulls his shirt up and off. 

Chris’ body is softer than it used to be, and the hair along his chest has turned grey. He’s still in shape, but no matter how much time he spends running he can’t seem to get rid of the slight roundness that lingers around his gut. Chris has to stop himself from pushing Peter’s hands away when they run over his chest, and he tries to relax into it when Peter plays with his nipples. It feels good, and he focuses on that and not the way he feels exposed. 

He closes his eyes and ignores the uneasy twisting in his stomach, instead focusing on the way Peter is dragging his nails down Chris’ chest. Peter growls against his neck, the noise vibrating through his chest and he shivers again, letting out a rough noise when Peter’s hands trail lower. 

“Peter,” Stiles says, his voice high and breathless. When Chris opens his eyes, Stiles is kneeling on the bed in front of him, his dick once again hard and jutting out in front of him obscenely. Stiles pouts dramatically, pulling his brows down in a very exaggerated manner that makes him look ridiculous, and demands Peter to, “take off his pants!”

Peter does as asked, rumbling even louder when Chris’ cock flops out of his track pants. He’s half hard, hanging heavily between his thighs and he kicks off his pants when they fall to the ground. When Stiles reaches for him he goes forward, though his knees ache as he gets onto the bed—he’s fairly certain he won’t be able to walk properly tomorrow, but he’s not complaining. 

Stiles meets him for a kiss, scratching his fingers down the sides of Chris’ face, cupping his jaw in his hands. The slide of their lips is gentle, unbearably soft, and Chris makes a hurt noise in the back of his throat. He’s missed this, missed Stiles and Peter and being close, and loving them in this way is something he’s gone so long without, caught up within his own—apparently unfounded—insecurities. 

It feels so good to be here with them, his  _ husbands _ , after so long of keeping himself away. When Peter climbs up behind him and sandwiches him between the two of them, a deep, guttural moan pushes out from his chest. Chris lets his head fall back against Peter’s shoulder, tilting it to the side to give Peter as much skin as he could possibly want—and it’s clear that he wants, with the way his mouth closes over Chris’ pulse and  _ sucks _ , biting down hard enough to leave more bruises that will last for days. 

The arm around his waist pulls him back into Peter’s lap, and he tugs Stiles with him, getting a hand on the boy’s cock. He’s hard and hot in Chris’ fist, and Stiles meets him for a kiss, messy with too much tongue and not enough patience. The head of Stiles’ cock is wet with precome and he presses his thumb into the slit, his lips twisting into a smile when Stiles’ breath shudders out of him.

Chris groans when Peter’s cock ruts against the small of his back, and he rolls his hips as best as he can, pleasure thrumming through his body as Peter continues to mark up his throat and the back of his neck. It’s all so much, and when Stiles grabs for his cock, he’s not sure how he doesn’t come right there.

Stiles’ hand is so warm, and Chris hasn’t touched himself in weeks, unable to stomach the thought of getting off with how low he had been feeling. Stiles bends forward, nearly folding himself in half to get his mouth on Chris’ dick.

Chris arches his back, his mouth dropping open as Stiles takes him to the root. As good as Chris may be at giving head, Stiles is a thousand times better than either of them. The kid has  _ always _ had an oral fixation, and it definitely lent him well. But it’s been a long time since they’ve done this, and it’s too much. 

Already Chris can feel the familiar pressure of an orgasm building in the base of his spine, and he has to pull back and grip the base of his dick tightly enough that it hurts, all in an attempt to hold off his orgasm. 

“Oh my god,” Stiles breathes, straightening up. Peter chuckles before he reaches over Chris’ shoulder and pulls Stiles in for a kiss, moaning loudly as their tongues press together. 

He loses himself in watching them together, the sharp bite of his arousal calming to something much more manageable. That is, until, Stiles pulls away from Peter and kisses him again. There’s something sharper, more purposeful, about the way their mouths are moving together, and he feels like he can’t keep up. Chris also can’t keep his hands to himself, skimming his fingers up and down Stiles’ bare sides, sliding over his stomach and up his chest. 

“Pass me the lube, sweetheart,” Peter asks, though it comes out as a breathless demand. Stiles chuckles into their kiss and Chris whines when he pulls away, reaching out helplessly and pulling Stiles back to him, nipping at his lips and not letting him leave.

“Chris,” Stiles says, whisper soft and the word feels like so much more than just his name.

When Chris pulls back enough that they can press their foreheads together, he finds Stiles’ eyes shining just as much as his own must be, and their next kiss is as soft as Stiles’ voice. This time, he doesn’t protest when Stiles leans away, rather resting more of his weight in Peter’s lap and letting the way Peter’s hand is rubbing small circles into his bare stomach calm him. 

It’s been a while since he’s done this, but he isn’t nervous, not with Peter at his back. Peter rolls his hips forward, dragging his cock over the small of his back even as he palms Chris’ ass, hands large and warm and familiar. Chris watches as Peter takes the lube when Stiles hands it to him, his heart beating faster and faster inside of his chest. 

“Sit back,” Chris says to Stiles, smiling softly when he rushes to obey. 

Chris moves forward, placing his elbows beside Stiles’ hips on the bed, arching his back to push his ass up. He ignores the way his lower back aches, just a little, and focuses on the way Stiles’ tastes on his tongue when he sucks him down. Peter preps him quickly, fingers swift but careful as he starts to stretch Chris open. 

It’s easy to ignore the burn, focusing on making Stiles feel good with his mouth. He doesn’t use his hands, too busy running his fingers up and down Stiles’ sides, touching as much skin as he can, remapping his husband’s body. Chris takes Stiles deep, humming in pleasure when his hair is tugged. It’s easy to focus on that, the way his lips are stretched, how he has to focus to breathe through his nose, losing himself in the act. 

Peter is still fucking him with his fingers, steadily sliding in and out, teasing at his rim. Chris almost bites off Stiles’ dick when Peter presses against his prostate, but he manages to keep his teeth covered, whining even as he arches his back to push harder against Peter’s fingers. His cock is hanging heavy between his legs, throbbing every time Peter rubs against the nerves inside him.

It’s not long before Peter is pulling his fingers out, and Chris manages to swallow around the head of Stiles’ dick even as he pushes back, chasing the sensation of being filled. He’s too empty, and Chris can feel the way he’s gaping with nothing inside him. He’s not left for long, though, as Peter lines himself up. He doesn’t push in, but he presses forward enough that Chris can feel it, the heavy weight of Peter’s cock against his hole

Pulling off of Stiles’ dick, he sucks in a breath of air, letting it out slowly as he tries to relax. Peter’s cock is  _ thick _ , and even though Peter waited until he was up to three fingers, it still feels like a lot when he begins to push in, holding Chris’ ass open. He bears down, breathing through the stretch and resting his head on Stiles’ thigh, focusing on the soft fingers scratching down his scalp to distract himself from the dull thread of pain. 

It doesn’t take long for Peter to be fully seated, and by the time he’s slowly thrusting in and out, setting up a calm, steady rhythm, Chris’ cock is once again hard. He ignores his own arousal, focusing back on Stiles and finally working him with both his mouth and hand. Sucking as hard as he can, Chris plays with his balls, presses lower, rubbing his thumb in slow circles over Stiles’ hole, doing his best to get him off. 

Chris knows that Stiles is about to come with how he twists his fingers into his hair, and Chris takes him to the root, burying his face in the mess of pubes and swallowing down his release. He doesn’t pull off until Stiles pushes at his shoulder, over-sensitive after his orgasm. Stiles drags him up for a kiss that Chris falls into, bracing himself with his hands on Stiles’ thighs and pushing back to meet Peter. 

“Does he feel good?” Stiles asks, and his throat sounds hoarser than it should, still thick and heavy with arousal. 

He nods, unable to say anything. His heart is beating impossibly fast in his chest, and his entire body feels tight, tensing as arousal builds and builds. Chris reaches for himself, incredibly hard but needing  _ more _ , and Peter grabs his wrist, pulling it behind his back.

“No,” Peter growls, and Chris feels a bite of fang against the back of his neck as claws scrap up his sides. Chris groans low in his throat, meeting Peter thrust for thrust. 

Stiles is still touching him, running soft hands up and down his arms, kissing him sweetly. It’s such a contradiction to the way Peter is fucking him that Chris can’t  _ breathe _ , caught up in the sensations he’s lost in. Peter speeds up, fucking in harder as he wraps a hand around Chris. It’s too much, far too, and Chris comes quickly, shooting over Peter’s hand as he cries into Stiles’ mouth. It feels like his orgasm is punched out of him, and his entire body shakes through it. It isn’t long before he can feel Peter follow him over the edge, and he slumps forward, half lying on Stiles after Peter slowly pulls out. 

As he catches his breath, Stiles pulls Chris up the bed, letting him lay atop him. Come dribbles out of his ass but he doesn’t mind, not when Peter starts lazily fingering his hole, rubbing his own release into Chris’ skin. He nuzzles into Stiles’ chest, the dark patch of hair tickling his nose until he sneezes. Stiles pets his hair, and Chris drifts as both his lovers touch him. 

After a while he throws an arm over Stiles’ waist to get comfortable, the physical affection and post-orgasm drowsiness doing a lot to pull him closer and closer to sleep. 

“That was s’good,” Chris mumbles, words half slurred around a yawn. He chuckles when Peter slaps his ass in agreeance, wiggling until he’s a touch more comfortable. 

Peter joins them, pressing against Chris’ back and pulling him so he’s spooned up behind him. His hand is sticky when it touches Chris’ gut, but he doesn’t mind. It’s too good having Peter’s hands on him and Stiles’ smile directed at him, that all he can do is hope his heart doesn’t burst from his chest with how full it feels. 

“I love you,” Chris says, and it feels so good to say that he says it again, and again.

**Author's Note:**

> Chris starts to pull away because he’s insecure as he’s getting older and aging, and Stiles and Peter thinks he’s cheating on them. He’s not, he’s just silly. 
> 
> [my tumblr](https://lavender-lotion.tumblr.com/) and [my pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/lavenderlotion)


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